Love and Pain and All That Stuff, Part II
by Arianna18
Summary: Hardcastle falls hard and fast for the new woman in his life, and resents Mark's suspicions. Part II of the story begun in Part I


Disclaimer: I don't own the characters; the story is for fun, not profit

**ACT THREE**

As bad he expected it to be, Mark just wanted to get it all over with. But, when he got back to Gulls' Way, the 'vette was gone. Climbing out of the Coyote, he wondered where Milt was and, for a moment, he hoped that maybe Hardcastle had gone into town, to take Kay to lunch. Maybe he'd find out about the mystery man without Mark having to say anything at all. He thought about that. Thought about the Judge finding out the truth in some public place and, somehow, that felt worse than telling the man himself. Milt was going to take it hard. Better he should find out in the privacy of his own home.

Reaching back into the car, he picked up the medical license he'd filched from her apartment. Walking into the house, he wondered if the man he'd seen that morning was this Dr. Blair McKenzie. That suit hadn't looked like anything a successful surgeon would wear, but who could tell what anyone was, really, from the way they looked? Whatever. They could sort all that out later.

He slumped down into the chair in front of the desk in the den. Though it was lunch time, he had no appetite. And though he knew he should be studying, he also knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate. All he could do was wait until Hardcastle got back home.

As time wore on, he grew restless, then agitated, wondering where the Judge was. He hated the idea that he was the bearer of bad news, really awful news, given how Hardcase had been acting ever since he'd heard he was going to be a father again. His mind drifted back to the day he'd learned Milt had a son who'd died and the old, familiar sorrow filled him. He couldn't imagine anything worse than losing a child. The fact that Milt refused to ever talk about it – unlike his wife, Nancy, who he'd mention from time to time – pretty much told Mark that his son's death was the worst thing Milt had ever endured.

And now, in a way, Mark was about to kill Milt's second child. Not that the kid was his but, in his heart, Hardcastle believed it was – or, at the very least, sure hoped it was. He'd been making plans, thinking about that child, his child.

Hardcastle was probably thinking about having another chance to leave some footprints in the sand.

Mark's throat tightened. For quite some time now, he'd kinda hoped that Milt saw him like that, as the one to carry on his legacy, someone to be proud of … but that was just stupid. It wasn't the same thing. He wasn't Milt's son, no matter how he felt about the man, or how good their friendship was. No, he'd never mean that much to Hardcastle. Milt's almost delirious happiness about having another child, another chance, made that abundantly clear.

And Mark was about to take that away from him. Made him feel like throwing up.

Unable to sit still, he got up and paced around the den. Then sagged back onto the chair. All the while, he tried to come up with an easy way of sharing the news. A gentle way. But there was no good way. Up, down, pacing, sitting, glancing at his watch, worried and feeling sick. Wishing Milt would just come home already, so he could get it over with.

Until finally he heard the Corvette in the drive and he swallowed hard, knowing the moment of truth had come. But then his heart sank when he heard Kay's light laugh as they came in the door. Dammit. Milt must've picked her up at the shop. Mark stood, uncertain of what to do, but glanced at the medical license in his hand and told himself he could not put it off.

When they came to the doorway, he couldn't muster a smile of welcome, and he slid the document slightly behind him.

"What're you doin' in here, McCormick?" Milt asked as he lumbered toward his desk. Kay lingered in the doorway, watching him with a slight frown puckering her brow, as if aware of the tension emanating from him.

"I, uh, I have to talk to you about something, Judge," he said, though he held her gaze.

"So, talk already."

Mark continued to look at Kay, who took a step back. "I'll go see what I can rustle up for dinner," she offered, turning away without waiting for any reply to walk swiftly down the hall to the kitchen.

Mark started breathing again, and turned to face Hardcastle. "Judge, I'm sorry. I've got some bad news."

Scowling with concern, Milt demanded, "What are you talking about?"

Hesitating, Mark licked his lips, and then silently stepped forward to lay the document on the desk.

Giving him a wary look, Milt picked it up, read it, and shrugged as he laid it on the desk. "What's this about, McCormick?"

"I found that in Kay's apartment. I also found two cigar butts in the ashtray in her bedroom, and unless you've taken up smoking stogies, that pretty much proves she's entertaining someone other than you in there," he explained in a rush, but keeping his voice down, not wanting her to overhear him.

"You what?" Hardcastle snapped, anger flaring in his eyes.

"And I saw her at the store later," Mark barreled on, determined to get it all out before Hardcase ripped his head off. "A guy smoking a cigar met her there an' they went off to lunch together. I'm sorry, Judge, I really am. But she's been stringing you along. She's obviously involved with this Dr. Blair McKenzie. Why else would his license be in her desk, or his medical books on her shelf? Or his cigar butts in her bedroom? Huh?"

Hardcastle just glared at him for a long, painful moment. "I don't believe you," he finally growled. "You've been _stalking_ her?"

"No! Well, yes, I guess, in a way," Mark stammered. "I was … investigating. Finding out the truth."

"Truth?" Milt snorted in angry disparagement. He flicked the document with his finger. "This proves nothing except you've got an over-heated imagination and a dirty mind."

"What?" Mark protested, stung and growing angry at the Judge's willful blindness. "What more do I have to do to convince you? I got the _evidence_."

"What you've got is a lot of explainin' to do," Hardcastle grated in disgust.

"Me?" he exclaimed, his voice rising in agitation. "Kay's the one who needs to do the explaining starting with who's Dr. Blair McKenzie? Who's this guy she's been seeing?"

Milt tapped the document and threatened, "One call to Frank Harper and I could have you arrested for breaking and entering."

Taking a step back, Mark threw up his hands and shook his head. He'd known Hardcastle wasn't going to like any of it. Trying to calm down, but feeling defensive, Mark retorted, "I know what you're doing. Denying the facts… transferring your anger from Kay to me. I'm _not_ taking it personally."

Hardcastle rolled his eyes. Jabbing a finger at Mark, his tone ugly, he charged, "You're worried I'm gonna turn your bedroom into a nursery."

The accusation had come straight out of left field, blindsiding him and taking his breath away. Mark gaped at him, and felt his stomach plummet to his knees. The silence was electric between them, raw and dangerous. In a strangled voice, barely able to form the words, he asked, "Is that what you think?"

"Yeah," Milt snarled with a tight nod. "I think you're worried you're gonna lose this cushy life you got goin' for yourself."

Mark's heart twisted, the pain so bad he felt his eyes burn. But, damned if he'd give Hardcastle the satisfaction of knowing he'd scored a direct hit, if not for the reasons the Judge thought. Refusing to show how bad it hurt, Mark blinked and looked around the room, seeking inspiration. And then the fury erupted. After more than three _years_, Hardcase could say that to him? Accuse him of something so … disgusting? Well, the hell with that. "You call this cushy?" he shot back, his tone heavy with sarcasm. "Cleaning garages, waxing cars, trimming hedges – getting shot at every other day? Let me tell you, life'd be a hell of a lot easier in the French Foreign Legion."

Looking at him like he was a piece of noisome dung, Hardcastle sneered, "In case you hadn't noticed, this isn't a prison and I'm no warden, so you're free to take a hike."

"Well, you could've fooled me," Mark snapped, but inside he was reeling. Hardcastle was kicking him out. Over her. Hardcase didn't believe him. After all they'd been through and shared, the good and the bad, all they'd achieved together, the Judge was kicking him out, just like that.

Surging to his feet, gesturing toward the door, Milt shouted, "You want my permission? You got it… _and_ your walking papers."

"Fine," Mark seethed, though he couldn't seem to move. He felt frozen with disbelieving horror that he couldn't quite put into words and was trying to hold back with the defense of anger. He'd known Milt wouldn't like it, would take it hard. He'd even expected the anger – but he hadn't expected this. Not this. If he moved, if he even breathed, he thought something inside might shatter.

"Fine!" Hardcastle echoed fiercely, as if he was glad of it and couldn't wait to see the back of him.

Mark gazed at him, and forced himself to calm down; however far off the track they'd gotten, however much it hurt, the problem, the reason for this awful impasse hadn't gone away. Taking a breath, he insisted, "I'm telling you, Judge, it's _not_ your baby."

"And I'm tellin' you," Hardcastle roared, "_I want you out of this house!_"

Glancing meaningfully at the document on the desk, Mark slowly nodded. He swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat and clutched at the vestiges of his pride. "Well, hallelujah," he rasped, fighting for some measure of dignity, "I've been looking for a way out of this indentured servitude since the day I got here."

Turning on his heel, he headed out of the room. But he'd just mounted the two steps and reached the doorway when Milt blustered venomously, "I'm gonna inventory every item in the gatehouse, and if anything's missin'…"

If Hardcastle had driven a knife into his back, it wouldn't have hurt more … and would have been kinder. Deeply insulted, staggered that the Judge could think he'd rip him off, Mark stilled and then turned slowly to face the man who he'd thought was the best friend he'd ever have. Guess he'd been wrong. "Hey, Hardcase, I lived with you for three years," he said hollowly, cold and empty, "I thought by now you at least trusted me with the furniture."

Milt opened his mouth but before he could say anything more, Kay appeared in the doorway and slipped around Mark as she came into the room.

"I made some lemonade," she said into the taut silence, looking from one to the other, and handing a glass to McCormick.

Mark almost refused but then took the glass from her. Giving the Judge a flat, icy glare, he drawled harshly, "You don't mind, do you? If I swipe it, you can always have me arrested for grand theft _glass_." Wheeling around, he stormed into the hall and out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Milt flinched at the sound, and then turned to slowly sit down, his face a sullen, angry mask. Kay frowned as she moved farther into the room, and set the second glass she was carrying onto the desk. "What's going on?" she asked uncertainly.

Shrugging, Milt reached for the icy glass. "It doesn't concern you," he muttered, evading her eyes.

"I think it does," she returned, her tone calm but firm.

Hardcastle slammed the glass down on the desk next to the medical license; liquid sloshed and splattered. She drew a cloth from her pocket and moved to clean up the mess – and her gaze fell upon the document. She stiffened and pain flashed across her face.

Milt took the cloth from her. Wiping up the mess, he muttered, "McCormick has no business prying into my life. And he oughta know that."

"What about _my_ life?" she asked, sounding strained, breathless.

He looked at her and moved ponderously around the desk to wrap an arm around her shoulders. "It's the same thing," he told her with simple and straight-forward sincerity.

She bowed her head and brushed at her eyes. Her voice was tremulous when she replied, "Milt, I could never forgive myself if I thought a misplaced sense of loyalty made you choose me over your best friend."

"That's not why I'm doin' it," he said gently, though he sounded very tired.

"You have this wonderfully old-fashioned sense of what's right… of honor and integrity," she whispered brokenly.

Gazing at her, then lifting his eyes to look out the window toward the gatehouse, he shook his head. "This has nothing to do with integrity."

"It has _everything_ to do with integrity," she insisted as she pulled away and ran from the room.

Milt scraped his hands over his face. His shoulders slumped, moving stiffly, he finished mopping up the mess. Tossing the soaked cloth into the waste basket, he sagged down into his chair. For a moment, he just sat there. And then he slipped the medical license into the top drawer of his desk, closed it firmly, and locked it.

A few minutes later, he saw McCormick storm up the drive and toss a knapsack into the Coyote. He opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap. His expression rigid, he turned away, refusing to watch Mark leave.

Behind him, the engine roared and, with a squeal of rubber, the race car screamed up the drive to the highway.

Giving his anger free rein, wallowing in his furious sense of injustice, McCormick jammed up the volume on the radio as if the blaring sound could drown out the pain. He gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, driving too fast, going nowhere just as fast – just needing to get away. But reason and purpose sliced like a blade through turbulent emotion and jangled thoughts. With scarcely a glance to ensure the way was clear, he cranked the wheel in a vicious left turn, cutting across three lanes and, uncaring of the horns blaring behind him, headed downtown.

Outside the building that used to give him the heebie-jeebies but now was no more than a familiar institution that held a good many positive and even some poignant memories, Mark slid out the Coyote. He pulled his jacket down and then reached inside to carefully gather up the glass he'd carefully wrapped in a towel.

Frank looked up from his paperwork when Mark walked in and silently set the bundle in the middle of the desk. Wordlessly, he unwrapped it and stepped back. "I need a favor, Frank. And I need it now. I want you to check the fingerprints on this glass … the ones that aren't mine."

"You want me to do _what_ with this glass?" Frank retorted, looking at him like he'd grown a second head.

Tense, focused on this one thing, Mark grated, "Look, it's very simple. Kay's fingerprints are on the glass. All you have to do is run them through your files." He paused and then added more tentatively, "And maybe the FBI files."

Frank rolled his eyes and, in an obvious attempt to be humorous, replied with long-suffering irony, "I thought you only needed a blood test to get a marriage license."

Not finding anything about the situation the least bit funny, Mark looked from Frank to the glass and back again. "I'm asking this as a favor. If not for me…" he hesitated before plunging on, "then for Hardcastle."

Looking both perplexed and put-upon, but his curiosity getting the better of him, Frank asked suspiciously, "Did Milt put you up to this?"

Mark grimaced and shook his head. Milt would have his ass for this. "No, he doesn't know anything about it." With a narrow look at Frank, he added meaningfully, "And I'd like to keep it that way."

Rising from behind the desk, Harper held his hands out in helpless confusion. "I don't get it. I only talked to the woman for a coupla' minutes the other night at the party, but she seemed like a nice person," he objected, clearly wanting more grounds to justify the unusual request.

Feeling as if he was about to explode with frustration, Mark clenched his jaw against the need to shout, to rant about what he suspected, and about what he'd found and seen that day. But no matter how sure he was that Kay was running a con, he owed it to the Judge to keep private things private, at least until … until there were facts that Hardcase couldn't ignore. His voice low and hoarse, holding unconscious but desperate appeal, he rasped, "Just run the prints."

Frank regarded him soberly for a long moment, and then sighed. "Okay, okay," he agreed. "And if I come up with anything – which I'm sure I won't – I'll give you a call."

Mark's gaze fell away and, stuffing his hands in his pockets, he bowed his head and shrugged. "I better call you."

"Why?" Frank demanded, suspicion again flaring in his eyes. "Is there somethin' wrong with your phone?"

"Yeah," Mark admitted, all of a sudden feeling lost and infinitely weary. Flicking a glance up through his curls at Frank who was waiting for more information, he wondered if he looked as woebegone as he felt when he clarified, "I don't have one."

Frank quirked a surprised brow and then concern flashed in his eyes as they regarded one another in sober silence. Turning away, Mark murmured, "Thanks, Frank. I appreciate it." And then he hastened out through the outer office and into the hall before the detective – and friend – could ask any awkward questions.

Mark parked at his favorite lookout, about twenty miles north of Gulls Way. Huddled under his jacket, too numb to think, he stared out at the darkening sea and at the sky that glittered with starlight until dreary exhaustion overtook him and he dozed off. Hours later, shifting in his sleep, uncomfortable, he jerked awake and remembered where he was – and why.

Lifting his hand from under the jacket, he rubbed his eyes and sat up a little straighter. Was he wrong about everything? Had he jumped to too many conclusions? No. No, he knew in his gut that there was something off about Kay, about everything about her. But … even if he was right, did he have the right to interfere so fundamentally in the Judge's life – the right to act against what Milt so clearly seemed to want?

Had he been wrong about Hardcase being coerced into this marriage, his innate honor and integrity used against him? Maybe … maybe Hardcastle really did love her, after all. With a sinking feeling, Mark reflected that the Judge never, ever, did anything he didn't want to do. And the man was sure keen on putting a ring on Kay's finger.

And what if the baby _was_ his? It was _possible_. Sure, it seemed just a bit too convenient, and Mark couldn't believe the Judge wouldn't have taken precautions but … accidents happened. And Milt had been seeing her for weeks before ….

God. What if he'd really screwed up here? What if Milt hadn't been blind so much as willfully ignoring the inconsistencies, like the way Kay kept looking over her shoulder. What if Milt just didn't care because he really wanted to marry the woman and really wanted to be a father again? Mark thought back to that night in the cell a few months back, about how Hardcastle had been worried about what he'd do once Mark moved on. Was this relationship with Kay his friend's way of creating a future in which he wouldn't be alone? In which he'd have purpose, a family; people to care about and worry about and look out for?

Morosely, Mark stared into the night. He wasn't jealous of the idea of Milt having a child. He really wasn't. He had never expected more than Hardcastle had offered, and right from the beginning, Hardcase had been very clear that he wasn't looking to replace his son. No, Mark had no illusions about being a surrogate son, even if he regarded Milt as more of a father than Sonny had ever been to him. He just didn't want the Judge to be used … or abused. However, to be honest, looking back he could see that he'd been anything but positive about Hardcastle's relationship with Kay, right from the beginning. No wonder Milt had thought he might have ulterior motives. Made him feel physically ill, like his insides were being squeezed and crushed, to think Hardcastle could really think that stuff about him, but … but he had to wonder if he'd been the best friend he could have been, or if he'd only made things more difficult for Milt.

All he knew for sure what that he'd royally screwed up the trust that had been so carefully built between them over the years.

And he'd sure done a great job of trashing the friendship that mattered more to him than anything else in his life.

_Great time to be realizing all this_. _Will I ever learn to think before I take a running leap off the nearest cliff?_ Sighing heavily, he hunched down under the jacket. "I'm sorry, Milt," he murmured into the night. "Really sorry … if I let you down."

Milt sat slumped in his chair in the dark study, silently pondering the past few weeks and regretting a great deal, most especially the way he'd blown up at Mark that afternoon. The kid hadn't done anything more than voice a lot of the same questions he had, but had chosen to ignore. Voice … and act on those questions, in an attempt to find answers. Deep down, he knew Mark was only trying to look out for him, protect him. But he hadn't wanted protection – and he hadn't wanted answers, in case they were what he didn't want to hear or know. He'd been burying his head in the sand, and he knew it. Of course he'd known, all along, that there was something wrong, something that frightened Kay, something serious she wasn't telling him. He'd let it go, let it slide, because he'd spent enough time with her to know she was a decent human being. So she had some secrets. So what? Grimacing, he rubbed his mouth, and shook his head. After a while, he hadn't wanted to know. Hadn't wanted to think that she was spending time with him for any reason other than that she enjoyed his company.

The siren call of having a family again, especially now, when he'd been looking down the narrowing tunnel of the future and realizing with a chill that there was a lot more life behind him than ahead, had been too alluring to resist. He cared about Kay, he really did; maybe … maybe even loved her, in a way. They got along great; he enjoyed her company, felt good being around her. And once he'd gotten over the shock, he'd liked the idea of having another kid. Liked that idea a lot.

Even if, God help him, the child wasn't his own.

No, he hadn't wanted protection from her, or from himself. All he'd wanted from McCormick was support. That's all. Had it been so much to ask? To expect? Hadn't he made it clear, more than once, dammit, that he didn't want to hear any doubts? Why couldn't McCormick just leave it alone, huh? Why did he have to push so damned hard? And look where it had gotten them.

Milt opened the desk drawer and took out the medical license. He stared at it a moment, unable to read it in the darkness, but not having to see it clearly. He knew what it said. Sighing, he quickly replaced it and again locked it away. She hadn't explained it, though it had been clear seeing it there on his desk had upset her badly. She'd insisted that he take her home. Had said she needed to think; that things had gone too far and she didn't want anyone hurt, least of all him. Nothing he'd said to reassure her had made any difference.

Drearily, belatedly, he realized that if he really had cared for her as much as he'd cared about the fairytale he'd been spinning in his head, he would have dug in and found out what or who was scaring her a long time before now – and would have fixed it, if it was in his power to do so. He'd been selfish, too afraid the specter from her past would cast too dark a shadow on their future. But ignoring it hadn't made that shadow disappear, now, had it? Frowning, he figured he was soon going to learn those secrets after all, whether he wanted to know what they were or not.

Turning his head, he stared out at the dark gatehouse and, wondering where Mark was, he felt sorrow well in his chest. What had possessed him to say those terrible things? The kid didn't have a jealous bone in his body. He knew that. All he'd felt though, that afternoon, was the risk McCormick posed, the danger the kid presented to all his plans. To the future he'd imagined and had begun to believe could be real; the fairytale future where the ugly old frog got the princess and lived happily ever after.

What a fool he was. What a stubborn, pig-headed, miserable old fool.

The next morning, a voice that had as much warmth and personality as a robot droned over the LAX loudspeaker, "Arriving passengers on TWA Flight one-oh-three from San Francisco… proceed to the Baggage Claim Area, Carrousel Three."

A trickle of humanity came through the gate then quickened, like a freshet in a spring rush overflowing its banks and spilling into the larger river where tourists, businessmen and women, commuters, students, grandparents and dodging children rushed helter-skelter through the terminal. And amongst them, making their own determined way through the throng, were David Vincent and his henchman, Wylie Crowder.

"What did you find out about this Milton Hardcastle?" Vincent demanded as Crowder led him outside to the parking terminal where he'd left the rental sedan.

With a wry snort, Crowder replied, "He's everything you're not."

Vincent bristled and shot his subordinate a glare of warning. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Strictly legit," the enforcer expanded, incapable of being intimidated or perhaps lacking the wit to understand that he, too, could be replaced. "Ex-cop. Retired Judge. Pillar of the community. God's gift to law enforcement."

Vincent thought about that. "I wonder if he knows anything?"

"Why take any chances?" Crowder asked with a negligent shrug as he waved toward the car. "I bill by the day… it won't cost you extra."

Vincent gave Crowder a hard look, and his lip curled with unconscious revulsion. Despite all his underworld dealings, it still offended something deep inside of him to have to deal with a low-life like Wylie Crowder.

Getting into the vehicle, Vincent shook his head. He had already attracted the unwanted attention of a good number of the law enforcement community on the west coast by taking out an undercover officer who had understood the risks of his job. The last thing he needed was to raise any further ire or determined aggression by knocking off 'God's gift to law enforcement'.

"Let's stick to the plan," he directed with cool finality. "Drop me off at Blair's apartment. You do your job; then meet me back there and we'll clean the place out."

Phone pressed to his ear, Harper gazed balefully at the smoke curling from the cigar held by the very fit middle-aged man standing with casually arrogant confidence in front of his desk. As Frank listened to the voice on the other end of the line, his attention drifted over the suit and regulation haircut, and back to the very official ID he held in his other hand.

"That's right," he said into the phone. "Inspector Art McGowan." He listened again, then echoed, "San Francisco office… fifteen years… no, that's all I need to know. Thanks." Suppressing a sigh, he hung up the phone and, reaching across the desk to hand the ID back, he said, "Well, you check out."

McGowan smiled with no hard feelings as he slid the ID into the inside pocket of his jacket. "You said you were a friend of Mr. McCormick's."

"That's right. And when I said I'd run the prints for him, the last thing I expected was a visit from the FBI."

"Well, your friend has stumbled into the middle of a federal narcotics investigation," the agent told him.

_Figures, _Frank thought. _Nothin's ever easy when those two are involved._ Keeping his thoughts to himself, but _very_ curious, he asked, "What's Kay Phillips'… I mean Blair McKenzie's involvement?"

McGowan puffed on his cigar, buying time as if debating with himself about how much information to share. But he gave a small shrug and replied, "A year ago she became involved with a guy named David Vincent, an eligible, well-to-do San Francisco businessman, owner of a major shipping line."

"And…" Frank encouraged, impatient at having to pry out the facts.

"And it turns out, Mr. Vincent is using his company to import pure Columbian flake. We're talking major league – twenty million dollar deals every couple months."

Frowning, beginning to wonder if he really wanted to know after all, Frank scratched his cheek. "Was she in on it?"

"No and he wanted it that way, but then he slipped up. Iced his partner in the shipping company – one of our agents – in front of her," McGowan told him, his expression turning grim. "Well, she freaked," he went on, and took another puff of his cigar. "Ran to the police; they called us. We _all_ want a piece of Vincent."

Frank put the pieces together. "And she took off."

McGowan nodded. "Couldn't take the heat. The DEA and the Bureau were pushin' for protective custody and a new identity after the trial, but all she wanted was to get back to her medical practice."

Pushing himself to his feet, Frank asked, "Did you know she's engaged to be married?"

"Read about it in the paper," McGowan acknowledged with an expansive wave of his cigar. "Frankly, we'd lost her trail until we saw that photo of her and her fiancé."

"Milt Hardcastle," Frank supplied, his jaw tightening at what this news would mean to his old friend.

"Right. We've had her under surveillance since then; made contact once or twice," McGowan went on. "We're waitin' for Vincent to make his next move."

Not much liking the sound of that, Frank rubbed his mouth. He understood where McGowan was coming from, but there were innocents in the line of fire. "Well, before he makes it, don't you think we ought'a fill Hardcastle in? Kay and he could be in a lot danger."

But the agent threw his hands up, palms out, and shook his head adamantly. "No can do," he insisted. "My orders are to sit back and wait for Vincent show his hand."

Frank felt a surge of disgust. By the time this guy, Vincent, showed his hand, there could be bodies all over the damned place. Pushing past the FBI agent, on the way to the door, he growled, "You do whatever you want. I'm gonna fill Milt in on what's goin' down."

McGowan grabbed the phone and held it up in warning. "One call, Lieutenant," he said coldly. "That's all it'll take to stop you dead in the water."

Furious, but knowing he was trumped by authority greater than his own, Frank wheeled around and glared at the agent. McGowan grimaced, but he hung up. "This is my ballgame," he said flatly, all trace of collegial congeniality gone. "We play by my rules."

Rigid with frustration, Frank ground his teeth and looked away.

Milt heard a car in the drive but could tell from the sound of the engine that it wasn't the Coyote. Unsettled by Mark's continued absence, he glanced out the window and saw that it was Kay's Mustang. Her expression was somber as she got out of the vehicle and, when instead of coming into the house, she walked toward the ocean, he felt a sinking sense of sorrow. For a moment, he considered giving her space but couldn't stand the closed-in feeling of the den. Needing air – and knowing there was no point in putting off hearing whatever she had to say – he left the house and slowly followed her across the lawn.

When he reached her side, she didn't say anything; just took his hand and led the way to the wooden steps down to the beach. He heard the Coyote then, and half turned to see Mark climb out of the car. He caught Mark's eyes, but … there was no time now to clear up the tension between them. That could wait a bit longer. For now, he needed to know what Kay had decided. So he turned away from McCormick and followed her down the steep stairs.

Once on the sand, they walked for a while in silence, her arm linked in his. Finally, her steps slowed and she turned to look up at him.

"I'm leaving," she said, low and sad. "Leaving L.A."

He'd half expected the decision, but it was still hard to hear the words. Bowing his head, he nodded once, and cleared his throat. Looking back into her eyes, he said with a sigh, "If you're sure that's what you want… I can't stop you."

Her grip tightened on his arm, as if realizing he needed the reassurance of her touch, even as she said, "I'm sure."

Milt pressed his lips together and shifted to face the Pacific. He watched the waves roll to shore for a long moment and then said firmly, "I want to pay for the baby."

"Oh, Milt," she murmured, sounding as if she might weep. "The baby has nothing to do with you."

A lump filled his throat, taking him by surprise. He'd suspected the child wasn't his but he'd still wanted … _hoped_ … but it looked like the whole fairytale bubble was bursting. Heaving a sigh, needing to be absolutely sure, he gave her a measuring look. "You're not just sayin' that to let me off the hook… are you?"

A small, very sad smile curved her lips, and she gave a short shake of her head. "I only wish I was."

Milt knew he couldn't hide his disappointment, so he turned his face away from her. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he began the long walk back to the steps. Mutely, a half-step behind him, as if to give him some slight measure of privacy, Kay followed him. He told himself he should be relieved, that the whole thing had just been a crazy idea from the start, but he was too overwhelmed with the sorrow of what might have been.

Mark watched Hardcastle follow Kay down the cliff path until he couldn't see the Judge any longer and then, his shoulders slumping, he bowed his head. No wave. No called greeting. No expression of warmth or welcome on Milt's face. His hopes that they might patch things up crashed and burned.

Sighing heavily, he pulled himself together and went inside the gatehouse, where he quickly packed his stuff. It didn't take long. A couple boxes of books, a canvas duffle bag, a backpack, and he was finished. _Not much to show for more than three years,_ he thought with dismal regret for how things were ending.

He slung the duffle and the backpack over his shoulder. Picking up the two boxes and, though it was a bit awkward, he made it outside and to the Coyote, where he stowed everything inside. He didn't notice the stranger – Crowder – carrying a rifle quietly dashing across the lawn to the cliff's edge behind him, until he turned for one last long look around the estate that had been the best home he'd ever known. Well, the best since his mother had died, anyway.

But he stiffened, startled by the completely unexpected, when he saw the guy with the rifle peering over the edge to the beach below. Mark froze, hardly believing his eyes, and then icy fear for Milt quivered in his gut and shivered up his spine. Quickly, though he had no weapon, only knowing he had to stop whatever was about to happen, he sped off across the wide lawn. His only advantage was surprise, so he moved as quietly as he could. If he could get there fast enough, he could tackle the intruder and wrestle the rifle away from him. But it was a huge yard, as he'd learned to his chagrin years ago when he'd first pushed the lawn mower up and down its endless expanse, and getting to the guy felt like it was taking forever.

As he ran, he watched the man scout the beach below, and he wondered who the guy was. Mark was sure he'd never seen him before, and they weren't working on any cases. Nor, so far as he knew, had anyone with a grudge against Hardcase recently gotten out of prison. The memory of Kay struggling to avoid the photographer flashed into his mind – God, maybe she'd had good reason to be scared. Maybe this creep was after her!

If anything, that thought spurred him on, and he was running as fast as he was able. No way could he let anything happen to Kay. Regardless of his suspicions of her, Mark knew that if anything happened to her, or to the baby she carried, Milt would be devastated.

Mark began to hope he might get to the guy in time to prevent disaster. So far, the man was still scouting the beach and hadn't noticed Mark's approach, even though he was now close enough to see the guy stuff a stick of gum into his mouth. Slowing now that he was closer, still moving quickly but trying to be as silent as possible as he skimmed across the grass, he felt tension build. If the man became aware of him, he had no defense against the rifle. Never having considered himself any kind of hero, well aware of his own mortality, Mark wasn't keen on the idea of getting shot.

But when the man lifted the weapon to his shoulder and was sighting through the scope, Mark felt cold and hollow with the knowledge that he'd run out of time.

"Hey!" he shouted to create a distraction, and again poured on the speed – his only hope of surviving the encounter intact was to jump the guy before he could turn that rifle on him. "What do you think you're doing?!"

Startled, the stranger wheeled toward him, and Mark took a flying leap, one hand stretching out to knock away the rifle that was now pointed at him. He heard the shot and felt the unholy burn and jolt while he was still in the air. He hit a wall of darkness and the world fell away. He was blearily aware of crashing into the shooter, of both of them hitting the ground. The man cursed and shoved him off, over onto his side, and a wave of agony ripped through him. The darkness surrounded him, bearing him down through a tunnel, away from the light.

"What the …!" Milt yelled at the sound of Mark's frenzied shout and the blasting crack of the shot. He grabbed Kay and roughly shoved her across the sand, into the shelter of the overhanging rockface. Clutching him, trembling in terror, her eyes wide, she looked up at him, and he crowded closer, adding the shelter of his body as he pressed her against the stone. Straining to hear, he listened with every fiber of his being for the sounds of fighting – for McCormick's voice calling the all-clear. But there was just the wind, and the sound of the surf surging up onto the sand.

"Mark …" he rasped, sick with fear about what the silence meant. Was the shooter still up there, waiting for them? He had to know. He couldn't just stand there, doing nothing, when McCormick might be hurt.

"Stay here. Don't move," he ordered in a harsh whisper before easing out of cover to peer upward. He didn't see anyone above them, and he moved out farther, slowly, scanning the cliff-top. Picking up his pace, he angled toward the steps. "I think he's gone, but stay there until I make sure," he called quietly over his shoulder.

He pounded up the steps and, when he heard Kay scrambling up behind him, he didn't waste any breath telling her to go back to safety. Whoever had done the shooting seemed to be gone, or he'd be taking potshots at them by now. What had happened to McCormick? Surely, surely, he wasn't …

Milt thrust the thought away, unable to countenance it. Breathing hard, gasping for air by the time he neared the top, he caught the barest glimpse of a man with a rifle racing away, up the drive. And then, his gaze raking the area, he finally spotted McCormick near the cliff's edge – sprawled unmoving on the ground, half on his side, bright crimson blood staining his t-shirt and glistening on the grass beside him.

"_Mark!_" he cried out as he lunged closer and dropped to his knees beside his friend. Carefully, he eased Mark onto his back and, by then, Kay was there, also on her knees, facing him across Mark's body. Milt felt Mark's throat and grunted in relief to find a pulse, even as Kay eased up his shirt to check his wound.

"Do you have a handkerchief?" she demanded.

"I need to call a doctor," he gasped, fumbling in his pocket and handing over a square of linen. "An ambulance," he corrected, stammering, feeling the shock hit him.

"I'm a doctor," she replied evenly as she pressed the clean cotton against the raw wound. Surprised, Milt gaped at her, but then a moan drew his attention back to McCormick.

"J-judge… Judge… are you okay?" Mark mumbled in distress, seeming to be only semi-conscious. "Is Kay alright? The b-baby?"

"We're fine, kiddo," Milt soothed as he cupped Mark's chilled face with one hand. "You just take it easy, y'hear?"

"Some guy … r-rifle. Didn't recognize … gotta call the c-cops."

"Shh. I saw him take off. He's gone," Milt assured him.

Mark blinked at him, his eyes dazed and clouded with pain, but he seemed to relax. Weakly, he nodded once. His eyes closed and Milt wasn't sure if he was still conscious.

"How bad is it?" he asked, pinning Kay with a glare of helplessness, and maybe just a bit of blame as all the pieces belatedly clicked into place. She didn't seem surprised. The shooter had been after her. Mark had been shot because of _her_.

"It looks worse than it is," she assured him with a steady gaze. "There's a deep graze and powder burns – he must have been very close when he was hit. The force and pain of the blast knocked the wind out of him. But I just need to clean him up and suture it closed. I've got what I need in a bag in the trunk of my car." Turning her attention to Mark, she asked, "You still with us, Mark? You think you could walk to the house?"

"Yeah," he gusted, though he seemed in no hurry to move. Lifting a shaky hand, he squinted at her, and then at Milt. "Need some help up."

Milt looked from one to the other, wondering if Mark would make it across the lawn, but he nodded and clasped Mark's hand. He eased an arm around his friend's shoulders and drew him up into a sitting position. Mark bit off a groan and did what he could to help. Hooking an arm around him, and gripping Mark's arm firmly, with Kay helping on the other side, they got him on his feet, where he swayed unsteadily.

"Lean on me, McCormick," Milt ordered as he drew Mark's arm around his shoulders. "We'll take it slow and easy. You just concentrate on breathing and staying on your feet, okay?"

"'Kay," Mark agreed, still sounding stunned.

Kay kept hold of his other arm, and together they slowly shuffled across the yard toward the house.

And every step of the way, Milt was haunted by the knowledge that it could have been so much worse. In the blink of an eye, the space of a single heartbeat, he could have lost Mark – and that thought made his blood run cold. He couldn't bring himself to look at Kay, couldn't stand the knowledge that this was, in large measure, his fault. If he hadn't been so blind, so foolish … if he'd listened to the kid, used his head, checked her out, this could have all been avoided.

When they got to the house, Kay darted away to retrieve her bag from the car, while Milt helped Mark into the kitchen, where he eased Mark down onto a chair. Swiftly, he pulled a basin out of a cupboard under the counter and started to fill it with warm water.

"What did you think you were doing, huh? Taking on a guy with a rifle?" he grumbled as he kept half an eye on Mark. "Could'a gotten yourself killed!"

Mark surprised him with a wan grin. "Hey, Hardcase, you almost sound like you'd care," he teased, but his gaze fell away to the sodden handkerchief he was pressing to his bloody side, and he shivered.

"What kind of fool thing is that to say?" Milt shouted in aggravation. "'Course I'd care!" Mark flicked him a shy look but as quickly looked away. Grumbling to himself, Milt turned off the taps and, with clean dish towels from under the sink over his arm, he carried the bowl to the table. "You should'a called the cops, that's what. Maybe come in here an' got a shotgun."

"By then, he would have shot you … or Kay," Mark retorted, and hissed as Milt eased the blood-stained t-shirt up and over his head.

Milt dipped one of the towels in the water and, kneeling beside McCormick, he very gently began washing off the blood around the deep and ugly gouge in Mark's side. "You were protecting her as much as me, weren't ya?" he muttered.

"Well, yeah, her and the … _your_ baby," Mark replied, his voice strained as he winced. "Ouch. Easy," he complained. "That hurts, ya know."

"Could'a been worse," Hardcastle grunted, nausea again churning in his gut as he recalled the shot and the silence, the image of Mark crumpled and bleeding on the ground.

His hands started to shake and his chest felt too tight to breathe. Just a little while ago, he'd been mourning the loss of a child that had never been his. Glancing up at Mark's face, seeing the pain and more, the concern for _him_ in the kid's eyes, he felt utterly disgusted with himself. All this time, he'd been excited about having another chance, about having another kid, even if maybe it wasn't his own – when all this time, for _years_, he'd already _had_ another kid, one who had really needed him and loved him. A young man that had become as much his son as Tommy had been; a son he loved and trusted and relied upon. But he'd been too blind, too stubborn to see it. Had insisted to himself that they were only, and would only ever be, friends not … not family. But the shot, the silence, seeing Mark like that, the blood – so afraid and then so relieved to know the kid was alive and would be fine – the realization had hit him. There was nothing to mourn or regret. There was only cause to rejoice. He hadn't lost another child, not this time. His _son_ was going to be okay.

"Yeah, I could've been too late and you could have lost her," Mark was murmuring very softly, interrupting his thoughts. "I couldn't let that happen. I know I've been a jerk," he rushed on, his voice unsteady, "and I'm really sorry."

"That's not what I meant," Milt returned firmly. He could hear Kay rushing down the hall from the front of the house. Standing, he gripped Mark's shoulder and, fighting to master his emotion, he added gruffly, "I meant I could'a lost _you_."

"Oh," Mark exclaimed on a breath of air, gaping at him, but Kay came through the door at that moment, and Mark glanced at her uncertainly. "You're a doctor?" he asked, confusion on his face. "Uh – Dr. Blair McKenzie, maybe?"

"Yes," she replied briskly. When Milt circled around behind Mark, to give her room, she knelt beside him and opened her bag to rummage in it for what she needed.

"He's still bleedin'," Milt complained. "You sure we shouldn't just take him to the hospital?"

"Oh, no, not unless it's absolutely necessary!" Mark interjected. "You know what it's like. I'd have to sit around for hours, dripping blood all over the place, surrounded by crying kids and drunks and –"

"You don't need a hospital," Kay assured him, cutting off his protests. She filled a syringe with a clear liquid from a small glass vial. "This is a local anesthetic. It'll take away the surface sting and burn of the wound. I'll stitch you up, give you a tetanus shot and a prescription for antibiotics. A couple of good steaks for dinner to replace the blood you lost, maybe something for discomfort, at least for tonight, and you'll be good as new."

Bemused, Mark gave her a lopsided grin. "Sounds great. Thanks."

She anesthetized the area, and Mark looked away, his expression squeamish as he squinted against the sting of the needle. Then she drew out small forceps and a sterilized needle already threaded with fine silk thread in a plastic packet. Mark made a point of not watching what she was doing. Milt continued to grip Mark's shoulder supportively, and eased closer so that Mark could lean against him. He was absurdly gratified when the kid did relax into his strength.

"That guy was after you, wasn't he?" Milt asked to give both him and Mark something else to think about as she nimbly stitched the wound.

Biting her lip, she nodded. Giving him a quick glance, she said, "I think it's time I told you about my past, and this time you have no choice… you have to listen."

But she didn't say anything more until she'd finished closing the wound and had applied a dressing, anchoring it with a wide swath of gauze around Mark's torso. She gave him a shot in his arm, and then scribbled a note on a prescription pad. "We can have this filled at a pharmacy later or tomorrow," she murmured. "I've got some samples you can have for now."

"Thanks," Mark said. After a hesitant beat, he continued, "I'm sorry for the way I've treated you, Kay … er, um, Blair. It's pretty clear you need help." Glancing up at Milt, he rose stiffly to his feet. "I'll, uh, I'll just go relax by the pool. Give you guys a chance to talk."

"You don't have to apologize for anything," she replied, evidently meaning it. "You've done nothing but be a good friend."

"You don't hafta go," Milt protested, crossing the kitchen to the phone on the wall. He'd belatedly remembered he needed to let Frank know what had happened, but he swiveled around halfway, one hand up to stop Mark from leaving. He didn't like how pale and shaky the kid looked.

"Yeah, yeah, I do," Mark insisted with quiet determination as he walked a little unsteadily to the door. "You can fill me in on anything I need to know later. Most of it probably isn't any of my business. Thanks for patching me up, Doc," he added, and then slipped outside.

Milt wondered why McCormick was so insistent on giving him and Kay privacy – and then he remembered the kid didn't know it was all over between them. Sighing, he rubbed his mouth and then reached for the phone. So much was happening all at once, and he could only handle one thing at a time. He'd explain it all to Mark after he and Kay had talked. Resting on the patio was probably the best thing for him, at least for the moment. To be certain of that, he growled, "You sure he's all right; that I don't need to take him to the hospital?"

"I'm sure," she said with tired confidence. "Mark's strong. The wound is ugly, and he's going to hurt later when the local wears off, but he'll be just fine."

Nodding, Milt punched in the numbers and waited impatiently for an answer, only to find out that Frank wasn't in his office. Grimacing with annoyance, Milt left a short message with just enough details to guarantee that Harper would hotfoot it to Gulls' Way as soon as he could. Then he turned back to Kay, who had finished repacking her medical bag after putting the soiled towels and Mark's shirt in the sink to soak.

"Let's go to the den," he suggested, gesturing toward the hall. She nodded and led the way.

**ACT FOUR**

Milt waved Kay to the sofa, and then sat down in the leather armchair, facing her. She twisted her hands together and, evidently too anxious to remain still, she stood to pace in front of him.

"My name is Blair McKenzie, and I am – was – a surgeon at San Francisco General until about two weeks before I met you." She paused and stared out the window briefly, as if gathering her thoughts, and then resumed pacing. "I was introduced to David Vincent at a hospital benefit dinner; we were raising money for the new surgical wing. He'd always been a major contributor."

She looked at him for the first time since she'd started speaking, but he didn't comment and did his best to keep his expression neutral. After a moment, she went on. "He called me up the next day… we started dating. Everything was really good – until that damn night."

She rubbed her hands over her face, and raked her fingers through her hair. Crossing her arms, staring sightlessly at the fireplace, she swallowed hard. "I had a patient scheduled for a by-pass. She developed a secondary infection, and I couldn't operate. So I went home early." She flicked at look at him, but her gaze quickly shied away. "I heard loud voices coming from the den. David and his partner had been arguing for weeks; he wouldn't tell me why…"

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she turned to face him, and held his gaze. He could see the vestiges of horror still lurking in the shadows of their depths, and he wished she'd just spit it out. But he held his peace and waited for her to tell him in her own way.

"I went to the door. Looked in…" Her voice caught and she shuddered. "My God…" she rasped, "I saw David _shoot_ Carlyle."

"Did you go to the police?" he asked without judgment or emotion.

She nodded tightly. "I had no choice. I'd witnessed a murder…" She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, she looked away from his steady gaze. Starting to pace again, she threw her hands up. "But it all got so complicated. David's partner turned out to be an undercover police officer. And, Milt, you know what it's like when an officer gets killed – it's like the whole force goes out of its mind." Heaving a huge sigh, she muttered, "And I was at the center of all that insanity."

"Is that why you ran?" he asked, trying to understand it, to see it from her perspective: an innocent caught up in something bigger than she could contend with. But being overwhelmed, running, didn't explain why she'd as good as lied to him for months, allowing him to believe she was someone she wasn't. Though he'd done his best to keep his tone level, even he could hear the strains of disappointment – and anger.

Turning back to him, a small frown furrowing her brown, Kay moved across the room to him, and knelt by his chair. Looking up him, distress and an appeal for understanding clear in her soulful gaze, she reached out, as if to touch him, but then hesitated and gripped the arm of the chair instead. "I don't know… I guess I was scared. I thought being a surgeon meant I could handle anything." When he just stared at her, his jaw tight against the need to rage at her, her gaze dropped and her tone was bitter as she gave a small shrug and asked rhetorically, "What's two federal agencies and a police department pressuring me into a witness protection program?"

"Probably unconstitutional," he remarked dryly, and sighed.

"Oh, they were willing to have me testify without their protection, but that scared the hell out of me, too," she hastened to add, the bitterness still there. But she licked her lips, and her voice trembled as she went on, "I was getting death threats; sometimes two, three times a day." Again lifting her eyes to meet his, her jaw tightened, and her voice was steadier, with a hint of anger, as she asked, "But you know what really got to me? The way they kept looking at me – like I was a _criminal_."

"Cops have a tendency to do that," he admitted, wanting to give her the benefit of the doubt. But she'd lied to him for months, and her lies, her evasion of the truth, had gotten Mark shot. Unable to help himself, he wondered how much of her story he could believe. Wondered how much she might have known about Vincent's business. Milt had heard of him, and his transport business. The man was connected to some of the worst lowlifes on the west coast. She was a smart woman. How could she have associated with him without at least suspecting something was fishy? Looking away from those wide, entreating eyes, he reminded himself that she'd known Vincent as a generous benefactor of the hospital. As a doctor – a surgeon – caught up in her own world, how much would she have paid attention to what her lover did for a living?

As the silence stretched between them, he thought about the last few months, and how she'd so rigorously concealed the truth, allowing him to believe whatever he chose about her. So caught up in her own anxious fears, she evidently hadn't been overly concerned – or at least not concerned enough – that he'd misread damned near everything about her. 'Self-absorbed' didn't begin to describe her actions. But a frisson of discomfort at the summary judgment made him scowl, and he knew he wasn't being entirely fair. She hadn't been the only one who'd been 'self-absorbed' here. He'd been no better.

"And you know the rest," she sighed, breaking into his thoughts and drawing his attention back. "I left San Francisco… and Blair McKenzie. Tried to start a new life…" When the silence again became heavy, she pinned him with an aggrieved look and said with distinct recrimination, "I _tried_ to tell you."

He stiffened at her too-obvious attempt to shift at least some of the blame of the miscommunication between them onto him. His mind flashed to the night in the restaurant, when she'd told him she was pregnant. Yeah, sure, she'd said – repeatedly – that the kid wasn't his responsibility. And she'd hesitated to voice her agreement to marriage. But she'd allowed him to believe the baby was his. And she hadn't objected to the announcement of their engagement in the paper. Even if he hadn't confronted her, Mark had sure made his uneasy suspicions pretty obvious, and she'd done nothing to stop the emerging hard feelings between them, when she knew damned well Mark was right on the money. She'd had lots of chances to come clean with him. Once again, Milt's memory filled with the sound of the rifle's blast and the terrible silence – and the sight of Mark bleeding on the grass. He felt cold down to his bones when he thought about how easily Mark could have been killed – how lucky the kid was to still be breathing.

His tone was hard, uncompromising, when he grated, "You didn't try hard enough."

Pushing himself to his feet, he strode out of the room without a backward glance, leaving her on her knees, a hurt, plaintive look on her face.

Sitting at the patio table, one arm across his body in a consciously protective way to make sure he didn't move wrong or unwittingly bang his sore side, Mark was contemplating the ocean when he heard Hardcastle come outside. He was avidly curious about Kay's story, but as equally reticent to ask. He and Hardcase seemed to have gotten back to a place of at least tentative rapport with one another – amazing what being shot could achieve – and he didn't want to risk that by pushing his nose into the Judge's business. No matter what, he was determined to back Hardcastle in whatever came next.

Milt pulled out the chair across from him and sat down heavily. Worried about his friend, wondering if he was okay, Mark looked at him, and found the Judge studying him with an expression of equally deep concern, but neither of them seemed to know what to say.

Finally, Hardcastle asked diffidently, "How's your side?"

"Bullet just grazed me," he answered, trying to sound off-hand and stoic – and not let on that he still felt pretty damned shaky. It had been a near thing. "And Kay must've shot me up with some pretty good stuff. I don't feel a thing."

Evidently not buying his John Wayne act, Milt grunted, "You were lucky."

Looking back at the ocean, its massive, eternal presence easing something inside of him, Mark nodded soberly. "Yeah," he admitted with a sigh. Luckier than he really liked to think about, because thinking about it made him feel distinctly queasy.

"Thanks," Milt said, the tone conveying so much more than the word.

Startled, Mark looked at him. "For what? If I was in better shape, I'd have tackled the guy before the got the shot off. An' we'd know who he was – have him tied up and singing about who sent him."

"No…" Hardcastle murmured, shaking his head, as he waved off Mark's denials. "No, you … you stopped him. Didn't let him …." His voice dropped off, and he sighed. "I'm talkin' about more than that." When Mark cocked his head, not understanding, Milt looked away, as if seeking his own strength from the ocean. "You were right," he said quietly. "It's not my baby."

"Ah, Judge," Mark gusted, low and soft, knowing how deeply disappointed Hardcastle had to be about that. He'd really been excited about having another child, another chance at a family. Rallying, he encouraged, "Hey, Judge, a guy your age can always have another baby. I mean, you and Kay …"

But Milt shook his head and grimaced with wry acceptance. "The wedding's off," he replied hollowly, and shrugged.

Mark gaped at him, at a loss for words. Hardcastle had wanted it all so much. God, he had to be really hurting. Frowning, Mark glanced at the house, wondering what had happened, what the whole story was, but he didn't want to ask. Not now, anyway. Maybe later, when it wasn't so raw. Damn that woman. Whatever the story was, the Judge deserved a whole lot better than this. Anger twisted in his gut, and he thought how easy it would be to hate her, regardless of whatever trouble she was in. She'd lied to Milt. Had hurt him. And Mark knew he'd have a hard time forgiving her for that, if he ever could.

"But y'know, I've been thinkin'," Hardcastle's voice broke into his dark thoughts and, when he looked back at the Judge, he was surprised to see a smile playing around the man's mouth. "And the way I see it," Milt was continuing, "I got my hands full with just you."

Mark snorted and gave him a crooked smile. However angry he was at Kay, he couldn't help the relief he felt at knowing that he and Hardcase were going to be okay. That the fight, the hard words, no longer mattered. And those boxes and bags in the Coyote could be moved back into the gatehouse.

"Besides," Hardcastle went on, watching him with steady gaze, "I'm happy with the family I've got."

Mark's smile faded, and he looked away, back out over the land to the sea. Old sorrow, that Milt had lost so much, filled him. He'd give just about anything for his friend to still have his son, to have grandchildren to look forward to. Sometimes, life was so damned unfair. "Seriously, Judge," he murmured. "You … you could … I know it's not about replacing, but … you could have a family again."

"You aren't listening, Mark," Hardcastle told him, his voice firm. "I didn't say the family I _had_. I said the family I _have_."

Startled, not sure he understood, not wanting to make unwarranted assumptions, Mark jerked his head around to meet Milt's amused gaze, and the warmth he saw there left him speechless.

Milt's expression softened and he leaned back in his chair. "An' your right," he said reflectively. "It's not about 'replacing' one son with another. Tommy was … well, I'm gonna have to tell you about him. But, family isn't always, well, you get what I'm sayin', right?"

A lump thickened in Mark's throat, and he nodded. "Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah, I do."

As if uncertain, Milt's gaze dropped, and he drew an invisible circle on the table. "An', hey, I know you got a father –"

Mark snorted, and then laughed, short and bitter. "Biologically, yeah. Sonny counts for that much," he agreed. But then, carefully, trying to keep his voice steady, he added, "But Sonny was never someone to look up to. Someone to … want to be like. I don't think of _him_ as my dad, Judge. I haven't … not for a long time now."

"You haven't, huh?" Milt returned, and damned if his sideways glance wasn't shy … and hopeful.

"No, I haven't. I …" He had to swallow and clear his throat. "I'm happy with the family I've got, too. Right here. Right now."

When Milt smiled, he looked so damned happy it was like a light had come on, or the sun had suddenly gotten a whole lot brighter. _God_, Mark thought, dearly afraid he was going to lose it and embarrass the both of them as the love he felt for the man welled up inside, filling him so that he could hardly breathe. He'd known for a long time that Milt really cared about him, loved him. But, he'd never dared think … hadn't ever thought, or even hoped that the Judge would regard him as a _son_.

Especially not after the last few days, and the fight … he'd been so sure, so scared, that he'd lost everything that mattered. And now –

With no little relief, he heard a car coming down the drive. As Hardcastle turned to see who was coming, he swiped at his eyes and sniffed. Sitting up a little straighter, and wincing at the drag and burn in his side, he pulled himself together.

A moment later, with profound gratitude for the welcome distraction from too-heated emotion, he saw Frank come around the corner of the house.

Frank – and another guy that Mark instantly recognized as the cigar-smoker who'd been hanging around Kay.

"Milt," Frank called, "I got here as soon as I could. You guys okay?"

"Well, McCormick's a little worse for wear but, yeah, we're fine."

"Judge, that's him," Mark whispered urgently, jutting his chin toward McGowan. "That's the guy."

"What?" Milt asked, turning back to him.

"That's the guy Kay's having the affair with," Mark said, keeping his voice low so that the approaching men wouldn't hear him. Belatedly, he grimaced, wondering if Milt would really want to know that now.

Hardcastle's brows rose and then, standing, he wheeled back to Frank. Gesturing at the stranger, he asked, "Who's this?"

"Oh, sorry," Harper apologized. "Milt Hardcastle… Mark McCormick – meet Agent McGowan of the Federal Bureau of Investigations."

As Hardcastle and McGowan shook hands, Mark exclaimed in astonishment, "She's having an affair with a fed…?"

McGowan shook his head and chuckled humorlessly. "Look, I'm _not_ having an affair with the woman… I'm just doin' my job."

"See, wiseguy," Milt chided him, but couldn't hide his amusement. Turning back to McGowan, he jerked a thumb at Mark and said, "You'll have to excuse him. He's suspicious of everyone."

Mark squinted at Hardcastle and then at the other two men. Milt was taking it all – particularly the unexpected appearance of an FBI agent – just a little too calmly. "Am I the only one who doesn't know what's going on?" he complained, once again wondering just what, exactly, Kay had told Hardcase.

"I'll be glad to fill you in," the agent replied briskly, as he looked around, "but first, I'd like to see Blair… ah, Kay."

"She's in the house," Hardcastle informed him. Gesturing for McGowan to follow, he offered, "I'll show you the way."

They all trooped back around the front of the house and inside, to the den. But Kay wasn't there. Frowning, Milt scratched his cheek and shrugged. "I'll check upstairs," he muttered. "Make yourselves at home."

He glanced at McCormick, who nodded. "I'll look around down here and the back of the house," he offered and slipped back into the hall.

A few minutes later, Hardcastle tromped down the stairs and, in the hall, met Mark who was coming out of the kitchen.

"She's not down here," Mark told him.

"Not upstairs, either," Milt replied, and tossed Mark a shirt. "Here, put this on before you get a chill or something."

Mark looked askance at the loud Hawaiian shirt depicting scarlet and indigo parrots and a dazzling rainbow of flowers amidst a forest of ferns. "What? You didn't have something a little brighter up there?" he demanded sarcastically, but pulled it on and began buttoning it to cover the wide swath of bandages.

Milt rolled his eyes but forbore to comment as he led the way back to the den. Harper and McGowan looked up expectantly, but Hardcastle shook his head. "It looks like she took off."

"She would have been a lot safer here," Frank observed caustically.

Standing behind Milt, Mark saw the sudden flush of anger stain his friend's neck as Milt grated, "Don't you think I know that?"

Frank tossed up his hands and turned away, his jaw tight, and Mark gave him credit for not escalating the tension in the room. "She probably went back to her apartment," Mark suggested, purposely keeping his tone light and even. If there was blame to be parceled out here, it didn't belong to him or Hardcastle, but they had more to worry about than taking shots at one another.

But the FBI agent abruptly picked up the phone receiver and thrust it at Milt. "Give her a call. Tell her we're coming over," he commanded.

Expecting an explosion, Mark quirked a brow and cut a sideways look at Hardcase, knowing full well how the Judge would feel about being ordered around in his own home – especially by the guy who had pretty much set them up and hung them out to dry. McGowan had been sniffing around Kay for days and had to have been using her for bait. Delicately touching his aching side, he had to admit that the gambit had worked. But the agent had messed up badly by not either being close enough to nail the shooter – or, better yet, stop him before he could shoot anyone – or keep Kay from taking a powder. The guy had to know it was his neck on the line.

McCormick just wished he had some idea of what it was all about and who was after her – and why. He hated feeling like he was the only one in the dark, here. The only one who didn't know what was going on or who they were up against.

Milt had taken the phone but he wasn't doing anything with it, just glaring at McGowan. Finally, he pointed a finger at the agent and growled, "Let's get something straight. The only thing we're gonna do is find Kay. Not pressure her into doin' something she doesn't want to do."

McGowan pulled his head in and his shoulders bunched. Mark thought he looked like a bull about to charge. Steam was practically coming out of his ears as the man snarled, "Harper tells me you were a cop," he rumbled, his voice strained as if he was keeping his temper on a tight leash, but only just barely managing to remain civil. "So you understand we need her testimony to nail Vincent – to shut down one of the major drug syndicates in the country."

"Every person has their limit," Hardcase snapped back, standing firm.

"That's Miss McKenzie's problem," McGowan sneered, gesturing impatiently at the phone.

Pointedly slamming it down, Hardcastle growled, "That's _Doctor_ McKenzie, an' I'm _makin'_ it my problem."

Mark cast Frank a beseeching look and, with a curt nod of agreement, he intervened. "Look, we're wasting time here. Why don't we head over to her apartment? You can call her from the car."

Milt darted a look at the detective, and then wheeled around to the door. "Let's go," he ordered, charging up the steps.

Mark scampered back out of the way, letting the Judge and Frank pass him on the way out. But when McGowan charged out of the den and into the hall, Mark stepped in front of him, momentarily blocking him. "Step on his toes and Hardcastle's got a funny way of saying ouch," he said, low and cold, and profoundly irritated with the agent's arrogance. Before McGowan could reply, he stepped way and waved the man ahead, following him outside, where they all piled into Frank's sedan. Sliding into the back seat, one hand pressed to his side, he'd barely closed the door when Frank peeled up the drive, siren already blaring.

Kay turned into the parking lot for her apartment complex. She looked around warily before getting out of the car and locking it. Moving quickly, tense and alert to danger, her gaze scanning the upper balconies, she hurried around the pool and down the short stone-paved path to her door. She could hear a phone ringing and, as she got closer to her door, she realized the persistent pealing was coming from inside. Her hand was shaking as she inserted the key, and she only began to relax once she was inside, the door firmly closed and locked behind her. Breathing shallowly, nearly panting from fear, she hastened to the phone but, even as she was reaching out to pick it up, she stilled and stiffened. Closing her eyes briefly, the breath caught in her chest, she bowed her head in defeat. Forcing herself to exhale slowly, she lifted her chin and turned to face Vincent, who was leaning with casual elegance against the bedroom doorway.

He smiled at her, sending chills up her spine. "It's good to see you, Blair," he purred, and began walking toward her, his pace measured, almost seductive.

"David," she gasped, terrified but trying not to show it. Unconsciously, knowing she was helpless to protect her child, she lifted one hand to press against her abdomen.

Vincent's gaze traveled down her body and back again, appreciative … hungry. "You're looking well," he observed, his tone cool, urbane and, under the circumstances, bizarre. "I've missed you."

"What do you want?" she demanded, striving for some measure of control and trying not to hope for too much from him. They'd loved each other once – or she'd thought it had been love – but it wasn't love that she saw in his eyes now. Lust, maybe, shadowed by regret; disdain colored by hate. But, despite everything, unable to believe they'd come to this, she wondered whether it was hatred for her or for what had to be done.

He held her gaze for a long moment and then, with an ironic lift of one brow and sardonic twist to his sensuous lips, he said with quiet finality, "I think you know." He stepped to one side and glanced back at the bedroom door. Crowder stepped into the frame, his gun leveled at her.

Fear surged, and she had to swallow hard to moisten her dry mouth as she stared in horror at the weapon, and then dragged her gaze back to her erstwhile lover. "David, please," she begged, both hands now pressing against her body, against the helpless baby who would die with her. "Just leave me alone."

His heavy sigh was loud in the dim silence. "I wish it were that simple," he murmured, sounding as if he meant it. "But you're holding the ace." He closed the distance between them, slowly, thoughtfully, and lifted his hand to caress her face with the backs of his fingers, his touch delicate. He sounded honestly sorrowful as he whispered hoarsely, "Remember that weekend we spent in Carmel? At the Sea Side Inn. I can't stop thinking about it."

She forced herself not to flinch away from the touch she'd once craved. As much as she'd loved him, she couldn't stop feeling revulsion for what he was, what he'd done. But her only hope of maybe surviving the next few minutes was to play on what he felt for her. Her voice quavered as she regarded him through her lashes and whispered in return, "Me, too."

He shook his head, and his hand dropped away. "You're only saying that because Wylie here has a gun pointed at you."

"No," she denied, reaching out to him.

Anger suffused his face as he grabbed her upper arms and shook her, his passion and jealousy spilling over his icy control. "Don't lie to me Kay," he growled furiously. "It's beneath you. I read the papers. I know all about your engagement to that Judge." Roughly pushing her away, so that she stumbled back a step, he charged, "If you hadn't fallen in love, I might never have found you." He jerked his head around, toward Crowder, and gestured to the door. "Let's go."

His lip curled in a parody of helpfulness, Crowder crossed the room to her and his hand closed her over arm, his fingers like a vise that she knew would leave bruises. Desperate, she lifted her wide eyes to Vincent, mutely appealing for mercy, for a stay of execution.

His brow furrowed and he sighed. "I want you to know, Blair, I'm sorry."

_Sorry?_ Kay tried to pull away from Crowder, and dug in her heels when he pushed her toward the door, but she didn't have the strength to resist the muscle-bound killer – and the firm, stark pressure of the gun's muzzle against her spine told her there'd be no mercy, no more chances. Relentlessly, he drove her down the short hall and outside, Vincent close behind them.

She was fighting back tears when Crowder jerked her to a halt while he scanned the courtyard and the deck of the pool. She saw him glance at Vincent and give a short nod, and David gestured impatiently toward the parking lot. Holding her tight to his side, his weapon out of sight but pressed against her ribs, Crowder marched her toward a nondescript sedan, parked not far from her Mustang.

But, just before they reached the vehicle, their heads snapped around at the shrill wail of sirens, and a sedan with a bubble light flashing on top screeched into the parking lot, black and whites rolling in close behind.

Kay drew a shuddering breath and felt a wild thrill of hope.

Harper had barely come to a stop before they all piled out of the car. Mark raked the area and immediately spotted Kay being led to a car two lanes over. "Judge," he called sharply and pointed.

Milt followed his gaze and, when he realized what was going down, he started toward Kay. Mark reached out to grab his arm and haul him back, out of the line of fire even as, beside him, McGowan pulled his weapon, shouting, "Hold it! FBI!"

Crowder shoved Kay toward Vincent and began shooting at them, exploding the windshield of Harper's car.

"Geez!" Mark yelled, dragging the Judge down behind another car, where they cautiously peered over the lip of the doors to see what was going on.

Frank drew his own weapon and hastily crouched beside his own car, where he peered around the hood to take aim. McGowan was already firing back. Crowder took a hit in the shoulder and spun away before toppling to the ground. Straightening, his weapon leveled at Vincent, who was holding Kay in front of him, McGowan shouted, "It's over Vincent. Let her go."

But Vincent pulled a gun and, holding Kay close, pointed it at her body. "She's my insurance out of here," he shouted back.

Mark couldn't believe it when McGowan lifted his weapon, steadying it in both hands as he obviously took aim. Either the man was one hell of a marksman or he didn't give a damn if he hit Kay. Distracted, Mark heard Milt curse under his breath and, before he knew it, the Judge was up and out from behind the protective shield of the car. Keeping a wary eye on Vincent, Mark stood and followed him, and was standing close when Hardcastle put a restraining hand on McGowan, jerking his arm back and down – and looking like he'd really like to slug the trigger-happy agent.

"You're startin' to get on my nerves," Hardcase told him angrily.

Trying to shrug him off, McGowan snarled, "You're interfering with a federal officer in the line of duty."

"So sue me," Hardcase snapped. Glancing over his shoulder at Mark, he directed, "Watch this guy for me, McCormick." Then, before Mark could stop him, Milt lifted his hands and started to walk toward Vincent and Kay.

"I _told_ you not to step on his toes," Mark complained bitterly to McGowan, as he helplessly watched the Judge putting himself right smack into danger. When Frank came to stand beside him, he cast an anxious look at the detective, but there was nothing either of them could do to stop what was happening.

Sounding firm but tired, Hardcastle called to Vincent, "Put the gun down and let her go."

"Give me one good reason why I should," the hood yelled back, his grip on Kay tightening. Pallid with terror, she watched Hardcastle continue to approach until, finally, about ten feet away, he stopped.

"She's pregnant," Hardcase retorted, flat, blunt and unvarnished.

Beside him, Mark heard both McGowan and Frank gasp in surprise, and felt a small flare of satisfaction that at least there was _something_ he'd known about this whole mess that they hadn't. But the errant feeling was short-lived. The situation was too tense, too deadly, and he was scared stiff that Milt was going to wind up dead. _Stupid donkey,_ he thought with proud but frightened affection. _Always pulling these damned John Wayne stunts. You're gonna give me a heart attack._

Laughing bitterly, Vincent chided, "That's a good one."

Sighing, Hardcastle lowered his hands. "I'm tellin' you the truth, Vincent. She's having your baby."

Edgy with tension, Mark watched Vincent, saw the surprise blossom on his face. Biting his lip, Mark clenched his fists and prayed this would turn out okay. But it was never good to back a desperate bad guy into a corner – and Milt was out there, being the hero, with no protection. Mark found himself wondering inanely just how much Milt loved that woman, and just how much all this was hurting him. And then he told himself that at least that kind of hurt wouldn't kill the man – not like a bullet could. Sick with worry, he could hardly breathe as he waited for Vincent's reaction.

Vincent looked from Hardcastle to Kay, who was staring at Milt, her expression unreadable. "What's he talking about?"

"It's true," she affirmed, and stood very still. Mark's jaw tightened. He didn't like her much, that was for damned sure. But he felt sorry for her. God, she had to be terrified.

"I know you figure she betrayed you, an' maybe ya hate her. Guess so, since you're so ready to kill her. But can you kill your own kid?" Hardcastle asked pointedly but in a non-confrontational, conversation tone, as if they were at some damned tea party or something, not standing in the hot sun surrounded by cops with weapons drawn in a scene more reminiscent of the Gunfight at the OK Corral than some damned chick flick. Mark felt like his heart was going to pound out of his chest, and he nearly cried out in protest when the Judge started to edge closer.

"You gotta admit that's a pretty good reason to give yourself up," Milt was saying, sounding reflective. "Y'know, when I thought it was mine," he went on, as if he was confiding an embarrassing but unavoidable truth, man to man, "somethin' changed. I would've done _anything_ for that kid. I don't know," he sighed and, shrugging a little, he offered, "maybe a man always thinks he can live again through his children… have a better life… not make the same mistakes…" He paused and shook his head. "But, more than _anything_, ya just want your kids to have a good life."

The silence was palpable, so complete that Mark could hear the Judge's heavy sigh and he thought how sorrowful it sounded. His throat tightened and he felt his eyes burn. Milt wasn't just talking about that unborn baby, and he knew it. Hardcastle didn't know how this was going to end, anymore than he did – and these might be the last words he'd ever hear the man say. It was an explanation and apology of sorts, for the strain that had arisen between them and the ugly words that had been said. And it was an affirmation of how Milt felt for _all_ his kids, underscoring with poignant meaning what Milt had said to him no more than an hour before.

Pressing his lips together, he blinked hard and fast, and he ached to be able to intervene, to be able to put himself between the Judge and that gun. But all he could do was hope and pray, and stand uselessly on the sidelines as he watched it play out.

"I know what I'd do if I were in your shoes," Milt said flatly, and then went on with heartfelt appeal, "Give _your_ kid a chance to live, Vincent. Maybe you don't have much to look forward to anymore, but you're the _only_ one who can give that innocent kid a future. Let her go."

Mark held his breath as Vincent stared at Milt, but his eyes didn't seem focused. It was like he was staring at something none of the rest of them could see. "C'mon," Mark breathed, and it took all he had to remain still, to not run out there and tackle Hardcastle to the ground. Finally, finally, Vincent bowed his head and lowered his gun. Releasing his hold on Kay, he took a step back.

Mark felt weak with relief as Harper and McGowan hurried forward, though both men still moved with cautious watchfulness as they passed Milt and McGowan appropriated Vincent's weapon. Frank gestured to the uniforms, and they moved forward to take both Vincent and Crowder into custody, cuffing them and reading them their rights. Behind him, Mark heard someone radioing in for an ambulance.

It was over.

_Or is it?_ he wondered as Kay slowly approached Milt and then threw her arms around him. Milt embraced her and, again, Mark wondered what all this was costing his friend. Pressing his hand to his side, conscious now that the danger was over of the throbbing pain, feeling suddenly exhausted, he was about to turn away when he saw Milt gently thrust Kay away and hand her over to McGowan.

Feeling awkward, wanting to give comfort but not sure it would be welcome, he watched Milt turn and start back across the hot pavement, walking steadily toward him. Their eyes met, and Mark found himself relaxing and offering a tentative smile when he read the peace and affection in the blue eyes that were regarding him so steadily.

"You always gotta be the hero, huh, Lone Ranger," he taunted, but couldn't hide the relief he felt that Milt was really okay.

Hardcastle snorted, and then gave him a crooked grin. "It worked, didn't it?" he challenged.

"Lucky for you," Mark agreed. Glancing past Milt's shoulder, he added, "Lucky for her … and that kid."

"Ah, it wasn't luck, McCormick," the Judge complained. "He was done for, and he knew it. He might've killed her for the sheer satisfaction of it – but he wasn't going to kill his own kid. Too vain, for starters. Besides, most men won't kill their own kids in cold blood. I was playin' the odds, that's all."

"Uh huh," Mark grunted, unwilling to argue about it. Besides, it was pointless. Hardcastle couldn't help himself … maybe no hero could.

Milt's smile faded as he eyed Mark assessingly, and then took his arm to solicitously lead him toward a patrol car. "C'mon, kiddo. Let's hitch a ride home. You've had more than enough excitement for one day. I think you need a nap."

Mark couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up from his chest at being treated like he was about five years old and incapable of taking care of himself. "Okay, okay," he chuckled and shot Milt a cheeky sideways glance. "Father knows best, huh?"

"Now yer cookin'," Milt approved with a broad grin.

_**Epilogue**_

Milt hung up the phone and rubbed his mouth as he grappled with his complicated emotions about Kay, or Blair … whatever. He'd cared about her, enough to marry her … but he couldn't deny that he felt a measure of relief that things hadn't worked out the way he'd thought they would. Still, it didn't feel right to let it all end with that scene outside her apartment building the day before. Glancing at his watch, and then at McCormick, who was sprawled on the sofa watching an old movie, he asked, "You up for a ride?"

"Sure," Mark replied without looking at him. "When?"

"Now," Milt told him as he stood and walked around the desk.

"But the movie's just getting to the good part!" Mark whined, though he obligingly pushed himself up and tried to hide the wince.

"We've seen that movie about a hundred times," Milt retorted, not sure whether to grin at the proforma complaint or tell the kid to forget it and just take it easy.

Mark snickered. "So, where're we goin', Masked Man?"

"To the airport. I want to say goodbye to Kay."

"Oh, oh, sure," McCormick replied, his manner less easy, and his gaze falling away.

Milt cocked a brow but didn't say anything. Mark was handling the whole thing about Kay with kid gloves. Probably wasn't sure which way to jump and Milt couldn't blame him. None of it had been much fun, at least not from McCormick's perspective.

Deciding that Mark shouldn't be driving yet, in case he pulled some stitches, Milt insisted that they take his truck. Mark huffed but didn't put up any other protest, which only convinced Milt he was right that the kid was hurting more than he was letting on.

They drove to the airport in silence, mostly comfortable but Milt could feel Mark's continuing uncertainty. "Go on, say it," he offered.

"Say what?"

"I told you so," Milt supplied, but with no heat. "'Cause you did. Pretty much right from the get-go."

"Ah, Judge, I wouldn't do that," Mark muttered. He heaved a sigh. "I guess I just figure that none of this is easy for you, ya know?" he offered with a quick glance. "You really care about her. Love her, even."

"Well, I have to admit a lot of it was fun," he admitted. "An', yeah, sure, I thought it could work. But I think I was more in love with the fairytale than the woman."

"Fairytale?"

"Yeah, you know the one, where the frog gets the princess."

"Judge, you're not a frog," Mark protested heatedly. "You're a darned good catch, an' she knew it." But he snapped his mouth closed as if he thought he'd said too much. Slumping in his seat, he added, "But I get that she was scared. You made her feel safe."

"I suppose," he agreed philosophically. "But she lied. She lied about everything."

"Maybe not everything," Mark offered softly.

Milt thought about that, about how things had been before the night she'd told him she was pregnant. Taking a deep breath, he felt a weight lift from his heart. "Maybe not," he allowed.

Once they got inside the terminal, he stopped to buy an armload of magazines and then, because time was getting tight, he hustled Mark to the gate, where they found Kay – and McGowan. He gave the agent a dark look, and the man moved away to stand beside McCormick and Mark, good kid that he was, started chatting about a bunch of nothing.

Feeling unaccountably awkward, Milt handed the stack of magazines to Kay. Though she looked startled, she took them with a grateful smile but teased, "San Francisco's only an hour-and-a-half flight. I can't possibly read all this."

Waving off her comment, he explained, "I didn't want you to get bored." Tilting his chin at McGowan, he didn't bother to hide his animosity as he added with surly contempt, "Besides, the company's not gonna be all that great."

"Inspector McGowan's only doing his job," she demurred, though her expression suggested she didn't entirely disagree.

"Yeah, well, don't let him bully you into anything," he counseled.

"I know what I have to do now," she assured him.

"Testify against Vincent," he said with a decisive nod.

"Take responsibility for my life," she clarified. "Do what _you_ would do if you were in my place."

Uncomfortable with the admiration he saw shining in her eyes, he rolled his shoulders and looked away. "You never know what another person's gonna do."

"Well, in your case," she replied, her tone warm with affection as she reached out to briefly touch his cheek, "I think I can be ninety-nine and nine/tenths percent sure."

McGowan sauntered over, rescuing him from the need to reply and he felt perversely annoyed at the thought of owing that jerk even a smidgen of gratitude. But when McGowan said, "It's time to go," and held out his hand, Milt grudgingly shook it. There was no point in being rude just because the man was an idiot.

"Thanks for all your help, Hardcastle," the agent said, managing to sound sincere.

Restraining the impulse to snort in disparagement, Milt muttered, "Yeah." But he rallied and said warningly, "You take good care of her."

"You got my word," the agent assured him, and Milt found himself wondering what that was worth. McGowan glanced at Kay, but again moved a few steps away, giving them space.

"I guess this is goodbye," she said, looking up him, and he was struck again by her vibrant beauty.

"Guess so," he agreed, finding it hard to find words, and was surprised when she leaned closer to kiss him.

"Thank you for everything," she whispered as she drew away. "… and I'm sorry."

Remembering that they had had fun together, and that he'd been an active party to his own deception, Milt found a smile for her. "You must've seen that stupid movie a few years back," he replied gently. "You remember what they said."

"Yeah," she agreed, fond amusement sparking in her eyes and he thought that, at least, was honest. "And it _was_ a stupid movie." She grinned at him, once more the woman whose company he had thoroughly enjoyed, the woman he'd thought was brave … and the woman he could feel some compassion for because she'd been scared and confused and had just wanted to live her life without cops telling her what to do and murderers threatening to kill her.

Mark came to stand beside him as he watched her move across the floor to join McGowan, and then past the ticket agent, through the portal. Unable to turn away, he watched until she'd disappeared down the ramp.

With a small sigh for what might have been, he gave Mark a look of wry chagrin, but saw only concern shining in the eyes that met his. When they turned to walk back through the airport to the parking garage, Mark laid a hand on his shoulder. He was grateful that the kid didn't say anything; grateful that Mark was just there, offering whatever support he might ever need. Very grateful that Mark seemed to understand that even if he hadn't loved the woman, he'd loved the dream, at least for a while. And that losing the dream carried its own sting.

But it would pass. And, all things considered – especially considering all the things that could have happened, could have gone very wrong – he'd ended up damned lucky. Feeling the easy weight of Mark's warm hand on his shoulder, he knew he had all he really wanted and that, yeah, he _was_ a damned lucky man.

When they reached the truck, he fondly slapped Mark on the back before they moved apart. Getting into the SUV, he suggested, "How about I take you down to the pier, buy you a hot dog?"

Mark snickered and flashed him a grin of delight. "Sure, Batman, why not? It's a gorgeous day, there's no bad guys gunning for us, and we've got all the time in the world. Heck, I might even let you buy me _two_ hot dogs!"

Milt snorted at his nonsense, and had to fight to hold back his grin. Wheeling out of the parking lot, he realized he was feeling good, really good. _All the time in the world, huh?_ Nodding to himself, he thought that sounded pretty darned great.

"Two hotdogs, huh?" he groused, happily falling into their game. "Well, guess I can manage that," he added grudgingly, with the long-suffering sigh of a martyr.

"Don't strain yourself, Hardcase," McCormick teased. "Wouldn't want to break the bank."

He sniffed disparagingly, but he cut a quick look at Mark. Warmed by the affection glowing on the kid's face, feeling his heart swell in response, he winked – and gave up fighting that urge to grin.

_Finis_


End file.
